The Missing Note
by Zenzero
Summary: The world outside can be something bad; something scary, crude, cruel. This is not the kind of world in which Jack wants to live. He's a pianist, after all. A pianist with his muse. [AU!]


_***§**_ **The** **Missing Note** _ **§***_

 _.:._

 _..._

The life of an artist can be uncertain, as floaty as a dream.

Someone make art just to make money. Someone else make art for fun, because they love making art or because it is something they are good at. And someone else, like Jack, live on art because they don't know any other way to live, and perhaps they don't even want to know it.

Jack doesn't have much money, just enough to survive - but he doesn't need to be rich _to live_ ; he doesn't care to be famous _._ His piano is all he needs, music is all he wants.

And his music is _his_! This is the reason Jack plays during the night, in solitude; it is enough for him to have a lighted candle and a quill dipped in ink. What does it matter, then, if his home is smaller than a room? Or if his pantry is almost always empty? Or if his bed is uncomfortable and hard? Jack doesn't care about those things, he just wants to play. Only him and his music.

He passes in front of the piano and caresses the wood and the ivory with the tips of his fingers; the light of the candle makes that material shine as if it was gold and diamonds. Jack sits down, looking at the scribbled sheet in front of him. He is composing a melody, one of many. One of the many nobody will never hear, except Jack.

He presses a white key: the C vibrates in the air like a solemn invitation to silence. Then, he plays the melody from the beginning, listening to it once again. He can hear his music giggle like a child when his fingers tickle B and D. Sometimes is the music that comforts Jack when he is down. Or it tells him some stories that entertain him until dawn, when he finishes playing and goes to sleep, so he doesn't have to stop living in his beautiful dream world. After all, what can real life offer him? There is nothing outside his apartment that interests him, there is no one who can understand him. People lie, steal, kill; art, on the other hand, is pure and honest, and fills his soul as the air fills his lungs.

Jack replaces the sheet with another one, continuing to play what is written on it. He feels like he is floating. He feels drunk and lucid at the same time. Is there anything in the world that could equalize such a feeling like that? Jack doubts about it.

The music ends, but Jack hasn't finished yet. He replays his melody from the beginning, changes it somewhere and replays it again. Then he stops, writing what he has just composed. He smiles. He likes it, he _loves_ it; however...

Jack sighs, hiding his face into his hands. _"What's wrong?"_ he asks himself, rubbing his temples. He observes all the keys of the piano, but he knows it is useless to count and recount them to infinity; even if he already knows that they are all there, sometimes he feels as if a note is missing. A fundamental one.

"Nonsense." Jack whispers, pressing some keys: _"N_ _onsense_! _"_ , M and C repeat, like a sweet echo to his thoughts.

Something catches his eye and he raises his head wearily. Is surprised to see snowflakes knocking against the windowpane. How long has it been snowing?

He tightens his lips. What about _her_?

Jack stands up ad walks. His bare feet are finding sheets of paper and old ink music, left on the ground like flimsy autumn leaves. He reaches the window and looks down at the street, trying to hide himself behind the curtain. It is the middle of the night, and it is snowing. There is nobody around.

Nobody but her.

Jack looks at that woman. She is standing right under his window, turning her back on the building where he lives. Shrouded in darkness, as usual. He has never seen her face, he doesn't know her name, but he knows what she is - and anyway, he doesn't care at all how her face looks.

He stares at her hair, pearled with white; then at her shoes, which aren't good enough for such a cold night as this. She is wearing a shabby shawl that isn't useful at all against the snow. If he were a person more prone to human relationships, perhaps he would invite her to warm up at his home. But he isn't going to do it.

That woman is his muse. He looks at her every night, and she inspires him to music. There is no other kind of relationship that he would like to have with that prostitute.

Jack pushes aside the curtain a little, looking at her more carefully. She comes every night ( _Every_. _night_!), waiting for the costumer on duty. He has no idea why he sometimes feels the need to leave his piano just to look at that unknown woman.

What attracts him to her, exactly? Perhaps, the fact that he lives in a world of music and dreams, and he likes looking at the real world only from behind his window; on the contrary, she is completely immersed in reality, and tolerates all the injuries, the lies and disappointments from which he, instead, is constantly on the run. And yet she is always there, every night; with the usual old shawl, observing the darkness of the street without fear. As if nothing on earth is able to break that little creature as strong as a mountain.

Perhaps _this_ is the reason; or probably, more simply, is because of the different nuances of her figure. He saw that woman under the full moon in the summer, her skin shining over the white light making her look like a ghost without a grave; but he also saw her standing in the rain (A beautiful concert in E Minor), without an umbrella, cute and compassionate like an abandoned puppy. And he saw her victim of the most cruel autumn wind, clinging to the handle of a door while trying with all her strength to not be carried away.

Now, in the snow, she looks like some kind of fairy creature. It reminds him of that fairy tale of the young winter's daughter, who fell in love and her little icy body instantly melted.

Jack watches his muse, letting his mind convert every imagine he sees into music. His ears are filling with F, A, C...

He doesn't waste time, moving away from the window and returning to his piano. He slides his fingers on the keys and lets the music drag him away, as sweet as the calm sea that cradles the sailor on his boat.

That woman is a fool. All of them are fools! Why do they persist in suffering and struggling, when it is so much easier to live in a world of music and dreams?

Jack shakes his head. He doesn't know how long he is playing, but when he returns to look at the window, he realizes that the snow is falling thicker and thicker. He stands up, and silently reaches the window. He looks down, towards the street.

The prostitute is still there, the snow is covering her shoulders like a cruel hug.

What a silly woman! Why doesn't she ever look for a shelter?

Jack approaches his face to the window glass. He expects to see her settle the shawl, or take off the snow from her shoes, or rub her hands on her arms to get warmth. However, she is standing, as stiff as a statue. As strong as a C.

His breath fogs up the glass, obscuring his vision. Jack passes the tip of his finger on it, carelessly drawing a square and some lines. "Se must be stupid." he mumbles to himself, before slowly cleaning the glass with the sleeve of his skirt. He looks down at the road. He looks for the woman.

When he finds her, she is lying on the snow.

Jack gasps, _What in the-_?!

He places his hands on the windowsill and presses his nose against the glass. Her shawl is flew away with the wind, she is facedown. What just happened? Did she fall, is she sick? _Impossible_ , Jack saw this woman endure worse weathers without ever wavering. But even so, she is still lying on the ground, completely immobile. He stares at her and waits.

And waits. How long is he waiting for? Why isn't she getting up yet?

She is almost completely covered by the snow, now. Jack walks away from the window, overwhelmed by a unfamiliar, powerful sense of panic. He doesn't know what to do, he is not prepared for such a situation. Should he go out and-?

He stops that thought, shaking his head. No, of course not. He is just a musician, he is not a doctor or something. Most of all, he doesn't want to deal with this kind of problems. Why should he care about her, then? Somebody else could...

" _Somebody else?"_ a voice whispers inside his ear; " _Seriously, Jack?! She's a prostitute, a woman at the bottom of the social ladder. Who do you think would worry for someone like her?"_

Jack bites his lip. Before he even realizes it, he has already walked the whole flight of stairs from his apartment to the entrance of the building. He opens the door wide and to welcome him outside there is a terrible frost, so terrible that for a moment Jack isn't able to move a single muscle. He didn't put a jacket to go out.

Worst of all, he didn't put his shoes either!

Jack can feel the snow bite his feet like an hungry beast, but somehow he takes courage and reaches the road. Snowflakes are stinging his face like a swarm of wasps and for a moment he must close his eyes. He make just two or three steps outside before he can open his eyes again; then he stops. There is a beautiful carriage with two horses that was pulled over to the curb.

Jack blinks as he watches the coachman bow to the young woman, lifting her off the snow and asking her if she was alright.

 _"See_?", he says to himself; he knew that it was a stupid idea! Even if he remained inside, someone else would help her. There was no need for him to go off in weather like this. Jack sighs, and doesn't know whether to feel stupid or relieved - but he is cold for sure; he should come back inside, and then...

"Sir," the coachman turns to the carriage window, "I think she fainted, Sir."

"Really?" exclaims a male, deep voice coming from the carriage. The coachman nods. The voice loudly sighs, "Well... better this way. If she's fainting I won't have to pay. Just bring her to me..."

" _I beg your pardon!_ " Jack advances in the snow as fast as he can. The coachman stops, caught by surprise, watching Jack bow to tear the woman from his arms. The man inside the carriage exclaims immediately, "What do you think you're doing, boy? I saw her first!"

"I'm afraid you are wrong," Jack says without looking at him. He raises the prostitute in his arms and walks towards the door to his home.

"Do you know who I am?!" the man shouts behind him. Jack doesn't know and doesn't care. He closes the door with a kick and stills, finally save from that terrible snow frost. He raises his chin taking a long, very deep breath. Then, he looks down at the woman.

He can't see her face, but she is probably younger that he has imagined. Her body is still and her skin is colder than ice. Her dress is soaked. Her forehead is resting against his neck, and he can feel it is scalding. She is not simply fainted, she has a high fever.

At least she is alive. Jack sighs, wondering how he ended up in a similar situation.

 _Never mind_. Sighing again, he slowly begins to climb the stairs - it is so hard! His feet are hurting like hell, and she is heavy, and Jack really doesn't like feeling her wet clothes against himself.

It's only then he remembers that this is the first time he has a girl in his arms; that thought makes him blush. He never had a particular interest in women, and he never felt the need to approach one of them. Why on earth is he feeling so embarrassed right now? He just shakes his head and picks up the pace.

When he finally reaches the end of the stairs, he slips into his apartment and closes the door. The noise makes her wake up; "W-what-?!" she presses her hands on his chest trying to get away from him.

"No please, do not fret!" Jack whispers, trying to reach the bed before she slides from his arms. He puts her on the mattress, and she calms down almost instantly. Jack bends down in front of her, but she lowers her head, hiding her face to him with her long black hair. "T-thanks, Sir..." she mumbles. Her head swings slightly, as if it were too heavy to be straight from the neck. Her hand goes to the shoulder of the dress and tries to pull it down, "It's four coins!"

"I'm not a customer..." Jack mutters, raising his hand towards her forehead. He wasn't wrong, this girl has a fever. And she is raving too, apparently. He should call a doctor, but where can he find one at this time of the night? He looks down at her wet clothes.

"You should... um, take off your dress," he says, surprised by the light tremble of his own voice, "I won't watch you, I promise. But you have to put something dry on. Can you do it by yourself?" She nods heavily; her eyes still closed and the most of her face still covered by her hair. "Good. What's your name?"

"Ashi" she answers. Her voice is so low that Jack struggles to hear it. "It's four... coins?"

"Just wait right here." Jack says, moving away from her. _Ashi_ , a particular name; he doesn't stop to think if he likes it or not.

He tries to lights his wood stove - has his home always been so cold? - and then he takes a towel and his own nightgown.

When he returns to Ashi, he finds her lying on the bed, her face sunk into the pillow and still wearing her wet dress. Jack understands he is the one who has to get it off and he immediately blushes, feeling uncomfortable. " _You got yourself into this_ _situation_ ", says the voice in his ear, " _now_ _do what has to be done!"._ He has no other choice, if he wants to help this girl survive the night. He takes her shoes off and loosens the laces of her bodice. Then, asking her sorry and trying to look at her as little as possible, he lowers her dress down to her belly.

Jack doesn't want to look at her, for real! However, he can't help seeing all the brutal bruises and cuts on her delicate skin. His hands are shaking as he finishes taking her dress off her legs; who can do something like that? He bites his lip and is surprised to feel a strange sensation nibbling his heart like a woodworm. Is that... anger? He has not really felt it for a long time.

Trying not to think about it, he dresses her up in his nightgown and uses an arm to help her sit up. Ashi protests, but, as soon as Jack brings a full cup of water to her lips, she immediately stops fidgeting and starts drinking greedily. Jack raises an eyebrow. She looks like a child, or some kind of little baby animal.

"Why didn't you stay home, this time?" he asks, helping her to drink. This is what people do, right? Creating conversations or something; "I'm sorry, umm... this is not my business but I can not understand. You come every night under my window, for once you could avoid going out if you didn't feel well."  
She finishes all the water and lays her forehead against Jack's shoulder. She makes a strange noise and he sighs, caressing her hair distractedly.

What a strange scent... is that lily? Jack quickly puts his nose away from her hair. "D-do you need money so much? I think y-you should..."

"The window..." Ashi mumbles, interrupting him. She slowly moves down her head so her nose can touch his chest, "The music."

Jack blinks. He looks down at her, "What?"

Seconds passes, as slow as hours, before Ashi says something else; she grabs his skirt and presses herself against his body. Is she crying? "Please Sir, _please_ don't kick me out! I'll do anything, I'm good... m-my little sisters need me...!"

"What did you mean?" Jack asks, ignoring the latter part of what she said, "What music?"

She yawns. "It's four coins, Sir. Cash only."

"Did you mean... _my_ music?"

He can hear her sighing against his skirt. "No, Sir." she whispers, shaking her head. Her lips are pressed against his chest, "It's not yours. It's... from the window... Do you know that window, Sir? There is a piano, the music, I... I love it... so much..." her voice is frantic and more and more tired. Jack is frozen. His breath stops, his heart stops. She pulls herself away from him and lies down.

"What...? No, please, don't fall asleep!" he grabs her shoulder and gently forces her to turn towards him. He has so many questions, all at once - Did she hear his music, for real? Did she notice that he watched her all the time? Does she know that she is his muse?!

However, every question vanishes, everything around him loses meaning when she turns around, finally showing him her face.

Ashi returns his gaze. Jack is speechless.

She is an angel.

"It makes me feel so happy." she yawns again, "It's... four... coins..." and then, she closes her eyes and falls into a deep sleep. Jack continues to stare at her without knowing what to do or what to think; he never felt his heart beat so fast before. He isn't able to touch her anymore, but he would want to do it. What is this feeling? Why does he feel this way? Why-

No, no, _nonono_! Jack closes his eyes and gets up from the bed shaking his head. This is wrong, this is so absolutely wrong! He composes music, he lives only with music. Why is he letting himself be involved with this unknown woman and her life?

With great strides he reaches his piano, touching with a hand the cold and perfect keys. He sits down and feels as if he can breathe again after a long time of apnea. That's right, _this_ is his world. It is the fluctuating, luminous, perfect world of art; not the cruel and multifaceted real world, not the world in which _she_ lives.

Jack looks at the papers in front of him. His melody, his precious unfinished melody. He can't stop himself from playing it again.

He starts with a very simple sequence, just to stretch his fingers: _C, D, E..._

And then, the melody turns on with an opening A. The same note is repeated over and over, in sequences of verse, with a candlestick rhythm that becomes suddenly faster; it is as if a whirlwind of butterflies had just appeared in the room, bringing with them all the color of the world. Then the notes change, giving the place to the G and the F-sharp; the music calms down, and the butterflies become plumes that are dancing in the air before slowly falling to the floor.

With these images in his head, vivid as if they were real, Jack looks up at Ashi. The light of the stove is caressing her skin. Her small hands clinging to the sheets, she moves her lips as if she was desperately trying to say something in her sleep.

Jack never stops watching her, and his music changes again without warning. It is no longer following the music written in the sheet, and the B takes control of the situation. It crackles in the air like a lot of soap bubbles, chanting a sweet rhythm similar to a lullaby. Ashi finally relaxes. She curls up on herself like a cat, grabbing a pillow as if it was a teddy bear.

Jack looks at her smile, and something inside his chest flares up like a fire. He never stops looking at his muse as his fingers take a different direction, and the melody changes again. This time is like the stormy sea. Is hurricane. Is lightning. Is D-flat.

What a fool he was! How could he be content to look at her from the window, all this time? How could he leave her the victim of rain and wind, sitting down and writing music instead of helping her? Jack has never felt so bad in his entire life. He always thought of her as if she were a sort of unattainable chimera, when all he needed to do was just leave his room and talk to her, touch her, see that beautiful smile of her.

He tries to imagine what it would have been like if he had invited her to his home, sometimes. Not _this_ home, so small and cramped, but a bigger, brighter one. Letting her sit on a comfortable bed, offering her a hot and tasty dish, and then letting her listen to his music.

The storm dissolves from his mind like a cloud of steam; now there is the sun that makes its way through the clouds and embraces the earth with indescribable warmth. Everything is peace, and light; everything is her smile into his mind. The music becomes more and more evanescent, until it fades with the same note with which has started - an A that is lighter than air.

Jack pushes his hands away from his piano; the light makes way for the darkness; the world slows down inside his room without saying a word. Outside, the snowflakes tap the window, sounding almost like a shy and far away applause. For a slow, infinite moment, it seems that nothing is going to happen. But then his heart skips a beat. A mighty shudder shakes his spine, his entire body is trembling under his skin. He has never experienced anything so intense, so powerful as this; not even during his precious slowly nights. What is this feeling? What was that music?

Jack takes a deep breath and looks up at her. His daydream has vanished with the melody, but Ashi is still here; still asleep. Still smiling.

Jack has no idea what is going on. But he doesn't mind.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, he feels he doesn't hate silence at all.

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Of course Jack doesn't know yet that Ashi, when she wakes up, will ask him for _seven_ extra coins because of his " _Depraved_ _games with nightgowns!_ ".

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.:.

 _* **The End** *_

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End file.
